


Worthiness

by Corona



Series: Playing with Fire [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Pillow Talk, Self-Esteem Issues, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: "You’re an amazing man. Not just handsome and skilled—who could dispute that?—but kind and good and admirable. It’s their loss if they can’t see it.""My, such praise. It would almost mean something if you didn’t see good in everything."It's been a long time since Dorian has let himself hope for more or believe that he's a better and worthier man than most others think. Leas is determined to change that.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Playing with Fire [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551184
Kudos: 35





	Worthiness

“Aren’t you amazing?” Leas murmurs one night, almost out of hand, into his shoulder.

Dorian chuckles and turns to look at him. “You don’t need to tell me that, I know very well _how_ wonderful I am,” he says, grinning, and Leas laughs in response and nestles deeper into him.

“Wonderful, yes, in every respect that counts,” he agrees. “Wonderful looks, wonderful skills, and a wonderful man. Have I told you I think I’m a very lucky man?” He looks up at Dorian, meeting his gaze. His eyes glint in the dark, puppy-like, staring at him with that look of open adoration once again.

Dorian’s laughter dies. “You’ve said so before,” he says, aiming for humour and falling very short of the mark. The words come out awkward, almost forced, and his blood is _twisting_ in his veins, sickly and uncomfortable. “Many a time.”

And here they go again. It’s hard to forget the theme of Leas’ compliments. It had taken him a while to notice said theme—or the timing of the compliments. But eventually, as he had been waiting for sleep to claim him one night, it had hit him. Whenever he jokes about how corrupting an influence he is or tries to warn Leas about how people will see them, or wryly mentions that surely Leas will tire of him eventually, or whenever somebody _else_ insults him or mentions their concerns about him… why, there Leas is, compliments and reassurances at the ready. They’re always some variation on, _“You’re wrong. He’s a good man, one to be trusted and admired. Have some faith in him. He’s a good man, a worthy man.”_ He can hardly recall an instance in the past months where that has _not_ happened.

And the way Leas looks at him… at first, he had not been subtle about how attracted to Dorian he had been. But now? Now, he looks at him like… like all the stars are hung in his eyes, like he’s someone worthy of admiration. There’s so much _adoration_ in those pretty blue eyes, so much untainted emotion that Dorian doesn’t know what to do with. Even in the middle of sex, that look remains. It’s so… it means...

What is this, he wonders. He should be _pleased_ that Leas is being so affectionate, not… uneasy. Why in the world…

The words start dribbling out of his mouth. “I rather think most other people would disagree with that assessment, anyway,” he says, making a better attempt at humour this time, though it’s still weak. He feels Leas sit up in bed, and he knows at once that the man isn’t buying it.

“Well, they’re wrong,” Leas says firmly, casting a light to illuminate their faces and stroking Dorian’s cheek with gentle fingers. “You’re an amazing man. Not just handsome and skilled—who could dispute that?—but kind and good and _admirable_. It’s their loss if they can’t see it.”

Dorian feels his cheeks heat up faintly, but he refuses to admit it. Instead, he cracks a smile. “My, such praise,” he teases, as if his insides aren’t starting to writhe. A long-neglected part of him begins to awaken, nourished by the compliments, and it is all the more so because they’re real, aren’t they? Perhaps, but Leas is, well… “It would almost mean something if you didn’t see good in everything.”

At that, Leas’ kindly smile drops, and he narrows his eyes. In the same moment, Dorian realises that he may well have just put his foot in his mouth. “That was—” He blows out an exasperated breath and shakes his head. “Creators, Dorian. To use your own phrase, you are an incredible _ass_ at accepting compliments!”

“And to use my own phrase, it’s my speciality,” Dorian ripostes, smiling again. Just ignore whatever’s going on inside him, whatever he’s feeling, no matter how genuine it is. It’s all he’s ever done. All he’s ever been allowed to do. And this little naïf is not going to change it, no matter what his insane idealism and faith in a man who probably doesn’t deserve his faith.

Leas shakes his head. “What is this, Dorian, honestly?” he says, more softly. “You’ve no problem accepting praise about your talents and your appearance. But whenever I try to praise you as a man, say that you’re worth more than you seem to think… you get thorny. Or you blow me off. What is it?”

Oh, Maker. This is _not_ a conversation he wants to have right now. Surely he can’t find the words now, in the middle of the night… though, really, could he find the words at any other time? How could he ever explain it? “It’s not something you have to concern yourself with. You’ve got enough to worry—”

“Uh-uh,” Leas says, smiling. “I used that exact excuse on you before, and you wouldn’t allow it.”

… Dammit.

After another pause, Leas strokes his cheek again. “It’s just us, Dorian. Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, yes? I know I’ve given you cause not to trust me before… but I promise, I won’t tell anyone this. It’s just between you and me.”

Dorian sighs, shoulders sagging, and sits up as well. He casts a small light of his own and looks away. Words fall through his head, tossing themselves around, but the right ones elude him, as they always have done. How to explain to one who does not know how he has lived? How to explain it at all, when he has never been permitted to? When the silence has gone on long enough, he opens his mouth, but nothing leaves it, and he shuts it again.

Leas notices. “Too difficult to explain?” he says. There’s no judgement, as there never is with him.

“I suppose so. Maker, I can talk your ears off about my homeland, about the… surface-level features of our culture,” he says, cringing as he realises what he’s saying sounds awkward, even pretentious. “But there are things that run deeper. They get into your skin, and when you’re brought up in a family where the last thing anyone wants to talk about is _feelings_ —” Dorian cuts himself off, looking at Leas at least in part for a rescue. “Do you see what I mean?”

Leas nods, for of course he does. “I see it. Don’t worry—it probably wasn’t a good idea to ask you to explain all this at _this_ hour of the night. I just wanted to understand why you always brush these things off.”

Dorian blows out a long breath, turning his gaze away once more. He thinks of Leas: kind, pure of heart, naïve, selfish at times but always well-meaning, bearing no real hatred though he has every right to do so. Goodness _radiates_ out of him, or perhaps _oozes_ is the better word. His eyes alone shine with idealism, with righteousness, with sincere belief. He is alluring, inspiring, a thousand other things, a light in the dark. Impossible not to be drawn to.

He thinks of himself—the corrupt Tevinter who spent most of his adolescence in brothels and taverns, engaged in all manner of debauchery and making a general embarrassment of himself and his name. He has an ideal, but he ran away from making it happen. He used to fall in love too easily, to have the same soft heart as Leas, if not quite _as_ soft—fat lot of good that did him. He drinks and pretends not to care, he snarks and snaps his way through everything, and he’s here with the Inquisition to, what? Fix his country’s mess? Not stop it from happening again?

His mouth twists, and he says, “If you really think I’m a good man…”

Leas grasps his chin, makes him look up and stare into those wide, beseeching, turquoise eyes. “I _do_ ,” he says. “Truly, I do! And does my worldview make it any less true? You went against everything you’ve ever known to do what you thought was right—you defied your mentor and braved the hatred of us southerners for it! And I know you _care_ , even if you pretend you don’t. Perhaps I think most everyone is good—but here, I have _proof_.”

Dorian lets out a frustrated little chuckle. “Says the Dalish elf to the slavery supporter,” he says dryly.

“I didn’t say you were perfect,” Leas says. “Anyway, I’d have been more surprised if you _had_ been against slavery. It’s how you were raised—I don’t blame you for supporting it. Not entirely, anyway. And you’ve proven willing to listen and hear me out—I’ve even won you over on a few things—so I mean, really—” His voice starts speeding up, the way it tends to when Leas is excited, but Dorian only shakes his head.

“You might want to consider lifting your standards. I fear that is nothing more than _common decency_.”

“It’s not easy getting people to reconsider beliefs they’ve held onto their entire lives,” Leas tells him. “I would know—I try to do it every day. That you’ve been listening, considering—that’s a good thing, beyond common decency.” He sounds so sincere, and he looks it, too, with his eyes getting bigger and more puppyish by the moment. But, even still…

Dorian turns away again. “Most others don’t seem to think the same,” he says, well aware at this point that he’s only arguing because he can’t— _won’t_ —believe Leas.

“Most others, humans anyway, think my people are sinful and lesser by nature,” Leas says at once. “Most others think Tevinter is completely evil and has no hope for reform. _Most others_ are likely wrong. What’s that Tevene phrase— _argumentum_ …”

“ _Argumentum ad populum_.”

“That. A logical fallacy, last I checked. One person believing something when nobody else does doesn’t always make them insane or wrong. Many people believing in something doesn’t make them right. It’s the same with elves, Tevinter—and you.”

Maker preserve him, his cheeks are flushing again, and that long-buried part of him, that soft heart he’s had to hide, is doing somersaults in his chest. No, _don’t_ show any signs of that… and don’t hope, don’t feel it. This is not Tevinter, but it’s too dangerous all the same. “You make a good argument,” Dorian admits, a little weakly. “It’s simply…”

He trails off, and Leas shakes his head. “There’s no ‘simply’ about it,” he says, gesticulating. “I’m just trying to tell you what _I_ think, what _I_ see. And what I _see_ is a kind, good, _wonderful_ man who’s worth admiring and who I’m _honoured_ chose me. Why reject that?” he continues, while Dorian goes very still. “What are you afraid of?”

More somersaults, more warmth. It would seem that after so many years of starvation, that stupid softer side of him hasn’t learnt its lesson; it immediately rears its head up for more while Dorian tenses and makes one last argument. “Honoured?” he says, voice cracking a little. “Don’t exaggerate—I know how fulsome you can get—”

Leas smiles, in the manner of a gambler who knows he has the winning hand. He abruptly throws one leg over Dorian’s and straddles him, and he leans in until their faces are almost touching. He holds his gaze, and yet again, Dorian’s breath catches at the sight of those glinting turquoise eyes so close to his. “Fulsome, maybe,” Leas says, almost breathes. “But have you ever known me to lie? Or to exaggerate?”

Dorian opens his mouth to respond, but in the next instant, the answer occurs to him.

No. He hasn’t.

For a long moment, all hangs suspended, Leas still smiling, waiting with the greatest of patience while Dorian’s mind starts reeling. Old defences rear up, all the arguments they’ve just been rehashing, and there’s something comforting in them, the safety of familiarity. But it would be a lie, and… he is quite done with living a lie.

So perhaps it’s true. Leas thinks he’s a good man. Would it be so dangerous for him to believe that, to accept that he means it?

So dangerous for him to believe that for the first time since Felix and Alexius, somebody honestly _believes_ in him? Even thinks the world of him?

Warmth floods through his veins, rushes to his cheeks and extremities, and in the next instant, everything seems to come to a shuddering halt.

Leas places a hand on his cheek, and through the haze of shocked realisation and the ineffable sensation for which he has no words, but that he’s been searching for all his life, he sees that the man’s smile is less triumphant now, more soothing. A moment of tearing himself away from his thoughts and Dorian again spots Leas’ eyes gone wide and puppyish, overflowing with affection and adoration. Starry eyes, but he looks at him as if all the stars are hung in _his_ eyes.

And it’s… real.

Distantly, Dorian realises that the silence has stretched on too long. He tries for words, but his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, and his head is fogged. He is, in a word, too _staggered_ to speak.

Leas grins again, just for a moment. “I love it when I render you speechless,” he says, teasing. Then he gentles. “Another one of those things you don’t quite have the words to explain?”

Dorian shakes his head, and with it, some of the haze seems to lift. “Not… _exactly_ , no,” he admits, fumbling. His hands lift to Leas’ back and travel up it almost of their own accord. “You _mean_ it…”

“At last, he gets it,” Leas says, beaming. “Do you see? I’ve meant every word.”

Before he can put any further thought into it, Dorian has drawn Leas forward into his chest, snaked his arms around him to hold him tight; Leas giggles as he rests his head on his shoulder. More warmth, more somersaults, more of this bloody feeling… but no, he doesn’t have to run away, not this time. Perhaps not even at all. Maker, if only he did have the words to explain...

Well, that might come in time. But for now, he can at least say—

“ _Thank you_.” The words come out too breathy, too weak, and Dorian would be ashamed if he still had his pride to protect… but to the Void with pride. What use is pride when he can finally have something _real_? With those words, coherency finally starts to return to him. “I… can’t explain what that means, but… thank you, all the same.”

“No need,” Leas whispers, brushing a kiss against the outside of his ear. “It’s such an honour that you chose me… and as much of an honour to convince you of these things.”

The moment begins to pass, though his veins are still warm as if it was a summer’s day in Tevinter. “The things you say,” he says, grinning now.

“I think we’ve just confirmed for a fact that you love it.”

“True enough,” Dorian admits. Seconds later, he tips them over and rolls, pins Leas beneath him, and Leas has just a moment to smile that damnable smile up at him before Dorian crushes their lips together.

It’s all frantic breathing, quiet desperation, their limbs tangling as Leas wrenches his hands in Dorian’s hair and pulls him down, and they can’t even hold on because neither of them can stop smiling long enough to kiss each other properly. Leas giggles against his mouth, breathes words of elven that have every sign of being of the saccharine sweet variety Dorian normally despises. Tevene equivalents flicker through his head, but not a one seems right—then, how could any word express what _this_ means?

Still, one keeps recurring. Perhaps that will do…

When Dorian pulls away to get his breath back, Leas looks up at him, still smiling and runs his hand through his hair. “How much trouble am I still in for my previous behaviour?”

“ _Much_ less so than before, I’ll give you that,” Dorian says. He moves to mouth at Leas’ jawline and down his neck, to hesitate a moment at his collarbone before moving back up and sinking his teeth just slightly into the man’s flesh, higher than he normally would. Leas gasps and shifts beneath him, laughing breathlessly, and when he’s finished marking the skin, Dorian lifts his head just enough to meet his gaze again.

“Good,” Leas says, with another giggle. “Shall we…?”

Dorian grins and runs a hand through his hair. “Anything you like… _amatus_.”


End file.
